


Everything Is Temporary (Except Us)

by Manyobsessions



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 221B Ficlet, First Kiss, M/M, drugs au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:18:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manyobsessions/pseuds/Manyobsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would John think of me, if he saw me now? Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd leave me for good. Maybe that wouldn't make a difference.</p><p>I haven't seen John since the wedding. That was three months ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Is Temporary (Except Us)

If there's one thing I've learnt in life, it's that everything is temporary. The happiness gives way to the loneliness, the loneliness fades to sorrow, the sorrow is dulled to an aching emptiness, which is, temporarily, pushed aside by the high. Temporary. Short-lived, life shortening, and temporary. 

 

A gust of wind shivers its way into my veins through the tip of a needle and swells into a delicious hurricane of blood roaring through my body with each beat of my stretched heart. The wall in front of me falls into the background as a familiar dullness tingles in my brain. Oh, sweet nostalgia.

 

Vision fades into a wash of watercolour across the opposite wall. I can't feel my feet. The sun is slipping through a window and dust is swirling in the air, caught by the yellow, like a drifting mess of... words, thoughts? Secrets. There are secrets floating in the air...

 

They dance a tantalising waltz, slow, sweet, graceful, surreal. I stretch my arm in front of me to capture some, store them, read them, learn them, but they dance a swift foxtrot just out of reach. I lean back, rest my head on my shoulder, and close my eyes, letting my own secrets dance patterns across my eyelids. They spin lazily around each other, weaving, intermingling, joining, separating, slowly, slowly, dull. They have none of the energy they usually have. Usually they smash against my skull and try and make cracks to get out through. It's a hurricane in my head, but now... It is a breeze.

 

There is a breeze in my head and it buzzes pleasantly. It lifts problems and feelings and takes them somewhere they won't bother me. Temporarily. I know the crash is coming, I can feel myself falling already. It will come. 

 

The needle is a foot away from me. Its emptiness glitters. Mine doesn't. My emptiness is the dull sheen of tarmac on an old London road. No glitter or glamour there, no glory in solitude. 

 

There is blood in my mouth. It tastes of metal. It tastes of cold and regrets and things that you want to say but never do. I think I split my lip. Maybe my throat is bleeding. I don't know. I don't care. I look down at my hands. I flex my fingers. They don't respond. This was a terrible idea.

 

What would John think of me, if he saw me now? Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd leave me for good. Maybe that wouldn't make a difference.

 

I haven't seen John since the wedding. That was three months ago.

 

Three months since I left him and he didn't follow.

 

Three months since John and Sherlock became John and Mary. And Sherlock. Sherlock on the side. 

 

I miss him.

 

I miss what we had. He was the only person who never once called me a freak, you know? He called me selfish, ignorant, infuriating, brilliant. He called me brilliant a lot. Whenever I deduced anything, it was brilliant. And that time that I made Mrs Hudson tea, just to be nice, and he beamed and breathed the word in the air from his lungs and I could feel its warmth. I beamed too. 

 

I miss him. So much.

 

We were best friends, he completed me and (I like to think) I completed him. He is smart, and brave, and loyal, and so human. He cared about me, I think. He made tea the way I liked it, and smiled at me when I said thank you, and I could see the sparkle of happiness in the kaleidoscope of colours that were his eyes. Genuine happiness. He was happy with me, I know it. I can't tell if he's happy now. His happiness doesn't seem the same with her,but that might be my perception warping the situation. Or... Perhaps... Maybe... He isn't happy. 

 

Is it terrible that my hopes are raised by the thought?

 

John would think so.

 

I'm going to sleep.

 

My eyelids are slipping down as my phone sparks to life with a repetitive chime. I stumble sluggishly to my feet and fall against the desk. My phone lies on top of a pile of sheets, ringing incessantly, drilling holes into my head. It takes a second to process the name on the screen, and when I do, a shiver runs down my spine.

 

John.

 

My toes curl, I want to throw up. He hasn't spoken to me in three months, and now he phones me when I'm coming down off a high? A high that he drove me to? His ignorance, his utter blindness drove me to relapse and now he just phones? Acid bubbles in my stomach. My skin boils. I throw the phone against the wall and curl up in my chair. I look at his vacant seat, all the creases from his weight finally smoothed out, and realise what I've lost. My sanity, dignity, my heart. I sob.

 

I realise that I lost a lot more than a best friend when I lost John three months ago. I lost the only person who ever cared about me. 

 

I lose track of how long I sit staring at his chair. I do that sometimes, just sit, staring, imagining John has just gone to the shops or something. Sometimes I even talk to him. About details on a case, something Molly said at the morgue, missing him. Maybe I'm going insane. 

 

"Sherlock?" It's John's voice, in my head. Strange. He's never spoken back to me before. Now I'm sure I'm going insane, but I find myself not caring, because that's the most I've heard of his voice in three months. I look straight ahead of me, straining to hear the voice again, concentrating all of my energy on hearing him. John. John's voice, that has saved me so many times. John's voice, that I want to be familiar, but sounds strange and gravelly in my ears.

 

"Sherlock?" I smile and curl around myself. Maybe he'll stay in my head forever? I hope so. I can talk to him, then.

 

"Sherlock, can I come in?" I frown. He's already here, in my mind, why do I have to let him in? 

 

"Sherlock, open the door, you bloody git." I stand up too quickly, and my head feels heavy and full of lead. I regain my balance and stand still, holding my head up with fingertips under my chin. The shock passes, and I close my jaw, pushing it upwards. My hands fall to my side. He's here. He's really here. He came. Back. To me. For me. I rush to the door.

 

He stands just past the threshold. John. Real. Here. I watch him in silence. He's changed. Only slightly, in ways no one else would notice. His eyes don't sparkle, his hair is paler, so is his skin, his hands are rougher, he's leaning slightly on his left leg. But he's still John, and he's here. He clears his throat and the sound fills my head and ricochets off the inside of my skull and it's the most perfect sound I can fathom.

 

"Can I come in?"

 

"Of course, of course," I stand to the side and let him pass. "Tea?"

 

"Please." 

 

He's here, he's really here, I think as I make the tea. I remember how to make his, and I take special care getting the exact right amount of milk, exactly a spoonful of sugar, exactly the right strength. It's perfect. 

 

I smile at John as I pass him the mug.

 

"Why are you smiling?"

 

"What? I'm not- I'm not smiling."

 

"You're not testing for drugs in the sugar again, are you?"

 

I chuckle, the first time I've laughed since I lost him. He laughs too, clear as bells, and takes a sip of his tea. His smile is tight-lipped and tired, not reaching his eyes like it used to, but it's still there.

 

"Sherlock- what's that?"

 

My blood runs cold. My smile snaps closed. My limbs turn to ice and my eyes open as far as they go.

 

"Sherlock- is that a needle?" It lies on the floor next to the window, empty, and still glittering.

 

"Experiment." It's usually a good excuse, and John would usually have shrugged it off. But I said it too quickly, and too stiffly, and I've given everything away.

 

"Sherlock." His voice is stern, reprimanding, and it makes me feel ashamed. It sounds like tires against gravel. Like a saw against wood. Raw. 

 

I look down at the mug between his hands. Pinpricks of water are building behind my eyes and I would rather he didn't see when they spilt over. He's going to hate me. "Yes." It comes out sounding strangled and forced.

 

"Sherlock," he says my name again and his voice is full to the brim with some kind of emotion. Despair? Possibly. Hopelessness? Maybe. Disappointment? Probably. "Why?"

 

And now tears are dripping from my eyes in great raindrops. I stay focused on his mug. "Three months." I say it as steadily as I can but my voice wobbles slightly.

 

"What?"

 

"That's how long it's been, you know? Three months, today. Since the wedding. Since we left each other behind and started new lives. Only I couldn't start a new one, so today, I went back to an old one." I lift my chin and look him in the eye. His eyes are clear, and sad, and tired. Mine are red, and wet, and flooding. "You were supposed to be the start of a new life. You did what no one else had ever done, and you cared about me."

 

I cover my face with my hands and wait for him to leave, hating me and never returning. I wish he had stayed a voice in my head, now. 

 

"I still do, Sherlock." I lift my head, and look at him. He's crying, too. "God, I'm so sorry." He set his tea on his side table and pulls me into a hug. "I'm so, so sorry."

 

We stay like that for God knows how long, crying into each other's shoulders and whispering endless "I'm sorry"s. His breath breezes across my cheek and I melt into him. He completes me, and (I like to think) I complete him. The tea goes cold, the light fade from the room, and we stand there, locked together, whispering. This is how it's supposed to be.

 

Eventually, we take a step back from each other and turn on the lights. I make him more tea. We settle into our chairs. His body puts creases back into his. It feels normal, and perfect. And so much more than I expected when I shot heroine into my forearm earlier today. 

 

"So, I phoned you earlier," he starts. 

 

"I noticed."

 

"You didn't answer."

 

"I know." He shakes his head in a façade of annoyance, but I can see the shadow of a smile and a sparkle of happiness in his eyes.

 

"I just wanted to let you know," he takes a deep breath, "I'm going to divorce Mary."

 

This isn't a surprise to me. He was never happy with her, not in the same way he was (is) with me. But I still can barely contain a smile.

 

"Does she know?" I ask.

 

"Yeah, I told her before I phoned you."

 

"I'm sorry it didn't work out, John. I truly am."

 

"Yeah, well, thanks," he sighs. "I don't suppose I could move back here, could I?"

 

A warmth starts in my toes and builds up to my head, splitting into a grin. "Of course."

 

He beams. "Brilliant."

 

We settle back into a routine. John goes to work before I wake up, I work cases until he gets home, we get takeaway, he writes his blog, and I do experiments. His walking goes back to normal. His eyes sparkle. I never shoot up again.

 

"Sherlock?" John says one night as I shake a test tube experimentally. 

 

"Mmhmm?"

 

"Can I talk to you about something?" The is sharpness to his voice, a certain anxiety. Nervousness. It sets me on edge.

 

I set down the test tube and go through to the living room, where John sits with his legs folded together and his fingers tapping against his knees. I settle into my chair, and look him in the eyes, observing the way they are wide, and a bright grey-blue. Like blue sky, but through a cloud. His hair looks like the sun through a cloud. 

 

"So," his voice catches and he clears his throat. I sit, silent, waiting. 

 

"So," he starts again, "You know I'm divorcing Mary, but I haven't told you why yet." I nod, interested. I have to admit, I was curious.

 

"Well, essentially, she was a gap-filler. When you were gone, I had no one, you know. I was so alone, and she was there, and she was nice enough. But she was never you. I know we were never... together... in that sense," I feel a stripe of warmth across my cheeks, "But she was basically replacing you. But then you came back, and I realised she could never replace you. And these three months have been the worst. I've had to pretend I'm happy. Marital bliss, or whatever. But I had just been missing you, and eventually I couldn't do it anymore and-"

 

"I missed you too, John."

 

He looks up and me and his eyes are full of something I recognise too well. Brokenness.

 

"It wasn't just missing you though, Sherlock. It was knowing I'd made the wrong choice. I... Chose her. Over you. And that was a terrible mistake, because I... I love... I don't love her, Sherlock." He swallows thickly. "I love you."

 

I blink. Once, twice. Three times. "What?" He loves me? 

 

"I..." He sighs. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-" 

 

My brain catches up with reality and I can't let him go again, because he completes me, and (I know) I complete him. And that's love, isn't it?

 

"I love you, too," his head snaps up. The clouds lift from his features. His eyes are just sky blue and his hair is just the sun, no clouds.

 

"You do?"

 

"Yes. Definitely yes. I'm not an emotional man, John Watson, but there's something different about you and," I'm rambling. I take a deep breath, "I love you, John Watson."

 

He stands up, and closes the difference between our chairs in an infinitely small amount of time, and locks our lips together. And everything is perfect. His hands in my hair, mine on his waist, our lips dancing a slow and tantalising waltz. 

 

"Brilliant." He breaths the words in the air from his lungs and I can feel it's warmth. It completes me.

 

Everything is temporary, except us.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)


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